


We die when we can no longer make a fist

by Wapwani



Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergence, Character Death, Dubious Consent, F/F, Fisting, but you know - romantic fisting, dubious consent because of the alternate universe versions things is still dubious consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-20
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2019-03-07 07:03:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13429413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wapwani/pseuds/Wapwani
Summary: Michael and Lorca are trying to get the Discovery home, but they have to make some difficult deals along the way. Set post-episode 10 (so there'll be spoilers for that one); but it's only informed by canon up until episode 10.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm looking at those tags and thinking...really? Is that really accurate? I mean, all that stuff does happen, and it is pretty grim for poor Michael. And now I'm realising that I write Discovery as really bloody angsty! But it lends itself to that so well! There are moments of light, I promise. But that doesn't necessarily make it better. 
> 
> I should point out that I've not watched episode 11 as I write this, so I have no clue what happens after the end of episode 10. This picks up almost right after the end of that ep. And even though I've not seen it, I am pretty darned sure that I have diverged from canon hugely. Also, this means that I have no idea if I'm characterising Emperor Georgiou at all accurately. But she's how I'd like to see her.
> 
> Not telling you who dies, because spoilers sweetie, but someone doesn't make it.
> 
> The title is adapted from the poem “Making a Fist”, by Naomi Shihab Nye.

 

The Captain’s chair on this Shenzhou was different from the one she remembered. All the times when Michael had taken command of the ship, the chair - Philippa’s chair - had somehow retained the Shenzhou’s true captain’s aura. As ridiculous as it sounded, Michael could swear she felt Philippa’s presence with her on those late night shifts; the scent of her seeming to cling to the leather, the armrest bearing invisible scuffs where she’d tap her fingers, a softness wrapping around Michael’s heart, as though Philippa stood besides her, hand on her shoulder, nodding her approval.

This chair, in this universe, on this Shenzhou, gave her none of that comfort. Hard angles at her back and stiff under her thighs, the only scent that clung to it was that of death, the only presence she felt were the ghosts of the men and women who had died fighting for the right to sit here. 

A day. They’d been on board a day. Ash assured her that Lorca was still alive - fed and watered regularly, and given occasional reprieves from the agoniser; every bare minimum necessary to keep him alive. What the torture was doing to Lorca’s mind and spirit, she couldn’t tell. She could see the toll it was taking on Ash; he was jittery and on edge, and she kept catching him staring at shadows, jumpy and nervous as a _sehlat_ cub in a tree. 

Michael knew she had to find a way to access and copy the Empire’s files on the Defiant soon, if for no other reason than to get Lorca and Ash off this ship before they were broken beyond any hope of repair. Saru and the Discovery were close, only a comm-call away, thanks to the shielded communication device Michael had secreted in her boot. It would only work one way, and she would only use it to send Discovery their location and signal to pick up when it was time for them to go. There was too much risk that someone would notice if she used it to actually talk to the Discovery. 

So she was alone on this Bridge - no allies, no friends, nothing she could trust. But she had a plan. She stood to order battle drills; that should keep the crew busy enough that she could steal a few minutes alone in the Captain’s ready room with a computer. 

But before she could give the order, the alert klaxons started to blare.

“A ship!” Gant cried from Tactical, his fingers flying desperately over his console. “It just appeared! Rebels!”

“Shields!” Michael ordered, taking another step towards the viewscreen. “Mr Gant, torpedoes!”

In this universe, you didn’t stop to say hello when someone appeared suddenly off your starboard bow. Especially not when that someone was a modified Vulcan raider.

The Shenzhou’s torpedoes flew towards the rebels’ ship, exploding against their shields in a shower of light and wasted energy.

Michael ordered evasive maneuvers, and Troy sent the Shenzhou racing away, banking sharply to avoid the raider’s return volley of torpedoes. The ship juddered as some of those hits struck home.

Detmer was at the secondary Tactical console, shouting damage reports for both ships, and redirecting repair crews.

“They’re too close!” Troy said, teeth gritted in effort as his fingers danced messages and orders to the Shenzhou’s engines. “Can’t get us away,”

“Give us distance,” Michael spat, “Full impulse if you have to. Get us behind them!”

As Troy sprung to obey, Detmer cried “Captain! They’re…they’re transporting!”

“Where?”

“Here!”

“Through our shields?!”

“I can’t- I don’t know how!” Detmer replied, not looking up from her console as she tried to block the transport signal from reaching them. “I don’t think I can stop them. Captain-.“

Michael was running for the elevator, every instinct telling her she knew exactly why the rebels were here. “Warn Tyler!” she shouted as the doors started to close. “They’re coming for Lorca!”

 

***

 

The Brig was a shambles when she got there - phaser burns scored the walls, access panels had been ripped back, exposing sparking wiring, and both Starfleet and rebel dead littered the floor. Detmer’s warning had come soon enough for a security detail to reach the prisoners, but the rebels outnumbered them. The fight still raged in the close confines of the Brig. 

Ash had pulled Lorca from the agoniser, and had him holed up in a dark corner; he was firing phaser bolts at anyone who came near. 

But he was one man, facing five, and as Michael came barreling into the room, she was only in time to see Ash go down under the battering fists of a snarling Klingon. The rebels pulled Lorca to his feet and started to activate the devices strapped to their arms, and Michael knew they were going to transport away. 

She raced across the room and dived, tackling the man who held Lorca at his knees. He slammed forward, dragging Lorca with him as he fell into Ash’s unconscious body. Michael scrambled over the rebel, trying desperately to reach the device on his arm, to disable it before -

Whoever had designed the rebels’ transport devices hadn’t been too concerned with pinpoint accuracy. When the transport beam shimmered into existence it was wide enough to accommodate all four of them.

 

***

 

They reappeared on the rebel ship; by some chance fate had been kind to them, and they did not rematerialise scrambled into a soup of their constituent parts.

The Klingon who had struck Ash hauled Michael to her feet, grabbed her by the throat and backhanded her across the mouth. Blood splattered to the floor. “The Butcher!” he growled. “The Butcher at the point of my knife! The gods have smiled on me today!” 

The force of his blow left Michael’s head spinning. She tried to shift, to find better footing so she could defend herself. The Klingon closed his fist and drew his arm back, ready to strike her again.

Two other Terrans had helped Lorca to his feet. Ash still lay unconscious on the floor. Lorca shook himself free and stepped forward, placed his hand on the Klingon’s chest, and snarled, “Enough.”

The Klingon snarled back at him.

“She is not for _you,”_ Lorca said, harsh and threatening. 

Michael stared in confusion as the Klingon seemed to back down; he lowered his fist and released her throat.

“Good,” Lorca snapped. “Now. Where is your captain?”

“Bridge,” the Klingon ground out.

“Bring us there!” Lorca ordered.

Amazingly, the Terrans and Klingon obeyed. They were escorted from the transporter room, with the Klingon in the lead, Michael and Lorca sandwiched between him and the two Terrans behind them. They brought Ash with them; only now groggily regaining conscious, the Terrans half dragged, half carried him along the corridor and to the turbolift.

“What’s going on?” Michael hissed at Lorca.

“Some of the Brig crew were talkative,” Lorca whispered back. “All evidence pointed to me working with the rebels.”

“So they think they’re rescuing an ally?”

“Shh,” Lorca hissed. They had reached the Bridge.

The Captain stood to greet them, and Michael could not prevent the gasp of shocked recognition that left her lips.

The captain was Vulcan. The captain was her father.

Sarek narrowed his eyes at Michael’s reaction, but made no further comment about it. Instead he said, “Lorca. We thought you dead.”

“Long story,” Lorca said, stepping forward and improvising as quickly as he could. “Suffice it to say, the reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.”

“So it seems. And you’ve brought us Michael Burnham. I’ll schedule her execution immediately.”

“Yeah. Let’s hold off on that for a minute.”

Sarek’s arched eyebrow was the only sign of his surprise. “You know I do not condone torture. Not even for her.”

“The thing is, this isn’t her. At least - not the _her_ you think.”

“Perhaps we should bring you to the medical bay. I fear you may be suffering-“

“Look. Sarek. Can we go somewhere we can talk. Just you and us?”

Sarek stiffened, but relented. He led them to a room off the Bridge; it was sparsely decorated with the merest handful of creature comforts. Michael knew this would be Sarek’s personal quarters. 

He insisted on keeping two guards with them; two hulking Vulcans, one who stood besides the now-recovered Ash, the other by Michael.

Sarek lowered himself into a straight-backed chair, indicated Lorca should take the other, matching, chair. “Begin,” he said.

“The thing is,” Lorca told him, “this isn’t the Michael Burnham you know. The truth is, none of us are. We’re from another place - a parallel universe. We fell through a..well, we’re not sure exactly how we ended up here. Something to do with a quantum singularity perhaps.”

Sarek frowned. “That is not impossible,” he said stiffly. “Incredibly unlikely. But not impossible.”

“Tell me about it,” Lorca said sourly. 

“We’re just trying to find our way home,” Michael said. “All of us. We don’t belong here. We’re nothing like our..our..counterparts here.”

Sarek blinked.

“There you have it, Sarek,” Lorca said. “That isn’t the Michael Burnham you want. So, you _can’t_ kill her. You’d be killing the wrong Burnham.”

“Before I rescind the orders for her execution, I do have to be sure you aren’t lying to me, Lorca.”

Lorca looked affronted at the suggestion that Sarek would have need to doubt his word. But then he shrugged. “Fine. Do what you have to.” He waved his hands at his own forehead. “Mind read her, or whatever it is you Vulcans do.”

Sarek nodded. He stood, and approached Michael. He raised his hands, then paused. “This won’t hurt,” he told her.

“I know,” she snapped back, stiffening despite herself as he drew closer. She felt the familiar touch of her father’s hands at her temple, and had to close her eyes so she wasn’t seeing his face - not seeing this face, this face absent of any of the signs of love and affection and care that Michael had spent half her life learning how to recognise.

She heard the familiar voice saying the right words _my mind to your mind my thoughts to your thoughts_ and she couldn’t help the half-sob at the touch of her father’s _katra_. Alien and wrong and _not him!_ But yet, somehow, it _was_ him, even though so few of the memories were the same - there were no memories where he took in a young, frightened human; no memories where he taught her to respect Vulcan philosophy; there were no memories of Amanda here, no one to show Sarek how to be patient with human impatience, or how to love a little alien child. The core of her father was there, but so many of the things she had loved about him were gone, had never existed.

When Sarek released her, Michael felt the wetness on her own face, and only then realised she had been crying.

Sarek returned to his seat, seeming to need the time to collect his thoughts before he spoke to pass judgement.

“This is not the Michael Burnham we know,” he said at last.

“I’m not,” Michael agreed. “Like I said, we’re just trying to get home.”

Sarek’s eyebrow arched again. “You have a plan.”

“Yes,” Michael said eagerly. “A ship - a ship from our universe - has been here before. The Empire must have records of the incident. We’re hoping that will give us enough data so we can work out how to reverse the process that brought us here, and take us home.”

Sarek nodded. “I suppose that is logical.” His gaze flicked to Lorca. “You are not the man I thought you were.”

“No.”

“That is unfortunate. We have need of _our_ Gabriel Lorca.”

“Can’t help you there,” Lorca said, almost flippantly. 

Sarek frowned. “Perhaps you can. Gabriel Lorca had a plan. And I believe you can help us bring that plan to fruition.”

“We just want to get home.”

“Then I propose an exchange of favours. You help us. We help you.”

“You have access to the Empire’s records?” Michael asked.

“The records you seek are not impossible for us to obtain.”

Lorca frowned. “And what would you want from us in exchange?”

“Simple. Complete Gabriel Lorca’s plan. Overthrow the Emperor, and turn over command of the Empire to us.”

“To _you?”_

“Too long have we lived with the Empire’s boot on our throat. Gabriel Lorca recognised the horror of the Terran’s rule. He joined the rebellion to help us free the worlds from their tyranny. You can help us finish what he started.”

“But how can we overthrow the Emperor?” Michael shook her head. “We have a ship full of people waiting for us to bring them home! We don’t have the time to-“

“I am not asking you to take part in a long, brutal war,” Sarek said coldly. “We have had enough of war. Gabriel Lorca’s solution was this - remove the Emperor and take his place. No one would even need to know it had happened - the Emperor is so rarely seen off Terra. He’s really no more than myth and legend. We would replace the Emperor and tear down the Empire from within.”

Michael and Lorca exchanged worried looks.

“That sounds complicated,”Lorca said at last. 

Sarek shrugged. “I can make the decision easier for you. Help us, or the execution continues. And we can as easily execute three as one.”

“Sarek!” Michael cried.

The Vulcan looked coldly at her. “I am not your father, Michael. Your choice is simple. Help us, or die.”

Michael thought of the communication device in her boot. A single call. A cry for help, nothing more. Saru would come, but he’d have no idea what he was bringing the Discovery into. A battle with a ship that appeared to have cloaking technology, and a transporter system that could put raiders on board the Discovery even under raised shields. They had to stall for time, buy themselves space to talk to each other and work out another way to get what they needed.

“What guarantee do we have that you’ll keep your word?” Lorca was asking.

Sarek turned to the computer on his desk and worked rapidly for a few minutes. He leaned back and moved the screen so Michael and Lorca could see it. The file was clear enough. These were the logs from the Defiant Incident that they needed so desperately.

“We have no further use for you once the Emperor is gone,” Sarek said. “Do as I ask, and I will give you these records, and escort you to your ship myself. 

Michael slumped back. To be so close to their target, but unable to barter or negotiate for it other than by agreeing to a harebrained, dangerous, mission. But at least now she knew that the files did exist, that there were accessible through Sarek’s computer. She just needed time to work out how to get to that computer for long enough that she could download the data for herself.

She looked at Lorca, gave him the faintest of nods. Lorca returned her gesture with a brief nod of his own.

“Fine,” he said curtly. “We’ll do as you ask. We’ll assassinate the Emperor.” 

 

***

Michael had hoped Sarek would give them a few hours to rest, to regroup, to have any questions they had answered. The success of her own plans depended on it.

Instead, the Vulcan ordered them to be brought back to the Shenzhou almost immediately. With one codicil.

They were in the shuttle bay, about to board the tiny maneuverable escape pod that they’d use to get to the Shenzhou. The story would be that they had managed to escape and find their way back. They would make even greater haste to Terra, now that they knew the rebels were so eager to save Lorca from the Emperor’s rightful vengeance. 

Sarek had come to see them off, a contingent of five Klingons and three Vulcans at his back. As Michael was putting the shackles on Lorca - he was still supposed to be her prisoner - two of the Klingons stepped forward and dragged Ash back.

“The Terran,” Sarek said, before anyone could protest. “Tyler? He stays.”

“No!” Michael cried. “That was _not_ part of our agreement!”

“Think logically Michael. Would it not be wise for me to give you an incentive to keep your word?”

“Keep _me_ then! Let Ash go.”

Ash was struggling against his captors’ hold, making them need a third man to keep him from breaking free. 

Sarek ignored the grunts and hisses of effort behind him. “The plan does not work without you, Michael,” he said. He tapped Michael’s forehead lightly. “It must have been such a disappointment to your father. To realise that all his training had been wasted on you. That you can be so irrational over something so _human._ If you want to see your lover again, fulfill your mission.”

“I swear to you Sarek-“ Lorca started to say, angrily, but the Vulcan cut him off.

“You have two days. On the third day, he goes into the agoniser. And he stays there until the Emperor is dead.”

“You said you don’t condone torture!” 

Sarek smiled thinly. “The needs of the many-“

“That is _not_ what that means!” Michael’s voice shook with fury. “You’re a monster! You’re no better than the Terrans!”

“Perhaps,” Sarek said, almost sadly. “Perhaps I am merely a good student. Regardless. You will fulfill your mission. And that is all that matters.”

“Ash!” Michael cried, futilely trying to push past the Klingons to reach him. “Hold on. I’ll come back for you! I promise!”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still haven't seen any of the show since episode 10, in most part because I want to write my version of things without knowing what they're doing over there. I know that Georgiou is the Emperor, but I know no more than that. 
> 
> iow, please don't expect canon compliance 
> 
> I was hoping to get it all finished before tonight's episode, so I could catch up on the show, but alas, the Muse is a wordy so-and-so. 
> 
> This'll probly go to chapter 3 now (she says, being entirely familiar with the sound of famous last words).

 

 

The Shenzhou crew watched warily when Michael led Lorca off the escape pod. They snapped to attention and saluted as soon as her boots hit Shenzhou’s deck, but she could see the doubt in their eyes, the suspicion. 

She leveled her phaser at the first security officer to approach Lorca.

_“No one_ touches him,” she snarled. “Install an agoniser in my quarters. I will see to him myself.”

“Captain -“

“Are you going to make excuses now? Justify how the rebels could slip on board like they _owned_ this ship? Take who they want? _When_ they want?”

“Captain-“

“Were _you_ responsible for that lapse in security?”

_“No!_ Captain, I-“

“Install the agoniser in my quarters. And _pray_ that I don’t have it tested on you first.”

“Ma’am. Yes Ma’am.” The office bowed and stepped hurriedly back into line.

Michael glared next at Detmer who had the good sense to mask any suspicion she may be feeling. “Report.”

“All systems normal, Captain. The ship is yours.”

“You’re damned right it is,” Michael responded, the warning clear in her voice. 

Detmer’s gaze flicked to the escape pod, then back to Burnham. “Tyler?”

“Lost in action,” Michael said flatly. 

Detmer nodded. “A good death. In service to the Empire. I’ll make a note in his record.”

Michael nodded curtly and shoved Lorca forward. A security detail fell into step behind them. Detmer turned to walk beside her Captain.

“Your priority,” Michael said to her, “is to determine just how the rebels managed to get past our shields. I will not go into battle with that vulnerability hanging over our heads.”

“Yes, Captain. And your orders for heading? Are we going after the ship that attacked us?”

“No,” Michael growled. “They want Lorca. We won’t have to chase them. They’ll come to us. Set your heading for Terra. Maximum warp.”

 

When they were finally alone in her quarters, with the doors sealed and all communications from the rest of the ship cut off, Michael and Lorca could finally talk. The close confines and unfamiliar controls of the escape pod had not made it easy for them to do more than focus on getting back to the relative safety of the Shenzhou, and losing Ash had still been too raw a wound for Michael to want to talk about it.

“We’ll get him back,” Lorca said. “He’s too good a Security Chief for us to leave him behind.”

Michael glared at him, and Lorca shrugged in a sort of apology. “What did Sarek say to you?” she asked, “Before he put us in the pod.”

“He was briefing me on the details of Lorca’s plans. He told me how to contact the rebels, once we’d succeeded with the Emperor.”

“He didn’t tell me.”

“No.”

“He doesn’t trust me.”

“Not entirely. We can hardly blame him. When he looks at you, he sees the face of the Butcher. I’m the face of his ally.”

“Are we really doing this?” Michael asked. “Are we going to kill this Emperor? We shouldn’t be interfering here-“

“We’ve already interfered,” Lorca said. “You killed Connor. You _had_ to. We have to do what it takes to get back, Burnham. Or do you want to spend the rest of your life in _that_ uniform?”

Michael had stiffened at the reminder of Connor’s death. _It was self-defence!_ she wanted to say. This felt different - walking knowingly into an assassination was not the same as suddenly facing an ambitious crewmember with their blade drawn. But if they didn’t do this, then Ash would likely die; she realised she couldn’t let that happen, especially not when the life on the other side of the scale was a faceless horror who held half the quadrant in their ruthless grip. 

From everything she had read and seen, the Emperor deserved to be deposed. And Michael wanted to believe that if she had been born into this universe, she would have joined the rebellion, would have made different choices than her counterpart had. She wanted to believe that Michael Burnham would do the right thing, would pick the right side, would choose to help the oppressed rather than aid their oppressor. 

She nodded. “Okay. What’s the plan?”

Lorca sighed. “Here’s the thing. Michael Burnham is one of the Emperor’s favourites. If anyone has any chance of getting close to him, it’s going to be you. He’s not likely to lower his guard for anyone else. But Burnham returned from the dead? Too tasty a treat for the Emperor to pass up. You’re going to walk me right into the Imperial Palace, ask to be present at my execution, and when the Emperor’s distracted by my imminent death, we strike. Kill the Emperor, call the rebels in to put their puppet in his place. And then we get our data files, and get our ship and crew home.”

“How are we supposed to kill the Emperor with no one noticing!”

Lorca grinned. “You’re the Emperor’s favourite. Ask nicely enough, and he’ll grant you anything. And you’re going to ask for a private viewing of my death.”

 

 

***

 

Michael shifted in her chair and watched the planet loom large on the viewscreen. It was Earth - the same outlines of the continents, the same shades of blue and green and swirls of white. But she knew she couldn’t allow herself to fall into the trap of thinking of this place as home. This was Terra, not Earth; she had no home or safety here.

She had pushed the Shenzhou to its absolute limits to get them here so quickly; there was room in her to be proud of the ship’s performance, of how well her crew had handled the demands of their Captain. In either universe, the Shenzhou was a good ship. Michael felt the old, familiar, regret of lost chances wash through her.

She clenched her hand over her dagger’s hilt and ordered, “Hail the Imperial Palace.” She was glad to hear her voice did not shake. “Tell them the Shenzhou has come home, bearing a gift for the Emperor.”

It was an unnecessary touch; the Shenzhou had been broadcasting their intent for hours now, every time they passed an outpost on their way through the system and sought clearance to approach Terra. But Michael was playing the part of the conquering hero returning from the dead; arrogance and grandiosity would be expected.

“The Emperor will receive you,” Narwani reported from the Communications console.

Michael nodded. “Helm, bring us into orbit.” She stood. “Detmer, the conn is yours.”

“Long live the Empire!” the First Officer replied, snapping into a salute. The rest of the Bridge crew echoed the salute as Michael strode to the turbolift. 

 

***

 

Michael and Lorca stood side by side on the transporter pad, Lorca back in his restraints. No one else from the Shenzhou would join them on their trip to the Palace; the Emperor’s personal guard would be in charge of watching over them.

Michael’s uniform gleamed; some duty ensign had been given the task of polishing her armoured sash and boots, and had done such a good job of it, the light glinting off the gold nearly hurt her eyes.

Lorca’s face still looked like he’d lost a fight with a meat grinder, and he smelled unpleasantly of sweat and blood and the acrid aftertaste of fear. 

They made the perfect pair to stand before the Emperor - the proud warrior and the subjugated enemy - the story of the Terran Empire in a living tableau.

They materialised in a transporter room in the Imperial Palace, were immediately surrounded by the Emperor’s guard, and led away. As they marched along gleaming hallways, Michael stole surreptitious glances at their surroundings. The Emperor’s taste obviously lent itself to grandeur - golds and reds and gleaming wealth from countless worlds were everywhere on display. And standing prominent amongst this show of opulence were constant reminders of the Empire’s dominance: armed guards at every doorway; images of the aftermath of battles on the walls, with Imperial troops standing triumphant over their fallen foe; what looked like art pieces casually presented on plinths - pieces that Michael recognised as objects of priceless significance to other species - talismans that would have not been let go without destructive struggle. 

They were led eventually into a room that Michael could only think of as a throne room - possibly because a prominent feature of the room was a large chair, set on a raised dais. Once she looked past all the flourishes of the design, Michael realised the throne was, at its heart, a Starship Captain’s chair. She barely had time to take in the rest of the room - only getting an impression of alcoves hidden behind gauzy curtains, a large balcony from where the evening sunlight spilled into the room, and wall decorations that seemed to consist entirely of non-Terran, bladed, weapons - before the guards were forcing Lorca to his knees, and a door behind the throne was flung open. More guards marched through, fanning out around the throne and down the stairs.

“All hail the Imperial Majesty!” shouted the commander of the guard.

The guards’ responding “Long live the Empire!” was deafening.

The Emperor stalked through the doors, alone, unguarded. He was not tall, but that fact was easily lost to the strength of his presence. He was dressed in the deep black uniform of a Starfleet officer, with high collars and higher boots, but no armoured sash, no badges of office. Instead, he wore a floor length robe of vibrant red, heavily embroidered in gold; the stylised panels woven into the breast pieces named all the Emperor’s titles, and the hem was thickened by the names of every foe who had fallen in his name. He was unarmed except for a long-bladed sword, worn strapped across his back. His face was hidden behind an ornate gold mask; carved into a semblance between a dragon and a boar, all tusks and sharp teeth and murderous snarl.

Michael found herself so transfixed, her salutation followed seconds behind the others, leaving her words seeming to echo in the silence. The only thought in her head was _what did I do to become his favourite?_

The Emperor descended, seeming to flow down the stairs towards Michael. 

“So,” the voice that emerged echoed strangely, muffled as it was by the mask. “The Emperor’s Fist has returned.”

Michael could only stare at the unmoving gold face - she thought she could detect a hint of amusement in the voice…a sharp sort of affection? And more…there was something else…something familiar. But she couldn’t quite put her finger on it.

The Emperor reached up and tipped the mask back, one of the guards stepped smartly forward to take it.

When she saw the Emperor’s face, Michael gasped as though she had been punched, hard. _“Philippa!”_

Oh, Michael knew this face. Knew every shift of mood by how brightly her eyes gleamed or how the little lines in the corner of her mouth tightened. Knew what she was thinking by the way her voice changed - louder, softer, sharper, gentler - all her angles and shadows and dips and heights - Michael knew them all. Knew this woman. Had _mourned_ this woman. Had never _stopped_ mourning her.

It didn’t matter how loudly her mind screamed _not her! -_ Michael’s traitorous, irrational heart knew this woman. Knew her and rejoiced to see her again. And everything she was feeling was wrapped up in that one word. _Philippa._

The Emperor’s eyes narrowed, the merest flicker, but Michael saw it immediately. She dropped into the deepest bow she could manage. “Your Imperial Majesty. Please. Forgive my impertinence.”

She felt Emperor Georgiou circle her. Heard her voice, pitched low so only the two of them could hear.

“They told me you were dead.”

“I…the reports of my death were exaggerated.”

“Deliberately?”

“Yes, your Majesty.”

“Michael,” there was admonishment in the voice now. “You made me miss you.”

Michael just stopped herself from whispering back _I missed you too._ Instead she said, “Forgive me your Majesty. There was no other way.”

“We shall see.” She stepped away from Michael, allowing her to straighten up, and stalked over to where Lorca knelt between two guards. “I see you’ve brought me a present.”

“I know how much you like them.” The words slipped out before she could stop herself. Philippa did like the presents she brought her; bits of masonry from old temples, pages of untranslatable text she’d found in ancient libraries, flowers. 

Georgiou looked at Lorca now the way she looked at the last bouquet Michael had given her - wildflowers she’d trekked half the day to find. (Michael had given others to the Shenzhou botany labs for cataloguing and study. But those were samples. The bouquet was a gift, carefully selected for texture and colour and scent to be everything that Philippa liked about flowers. It had made her Captain smile with such satisfaction and pleasure, Michael’s good mood had lasted for days.)

Michael knew her mind was rambling in shock, and she forced herself back to the present. She was sure _this_ Georgiou’s pleasure would not leave her in a good mood.

“Gabriel,” the Emperor was saying. “You crawling little worm. It’s good to see you again.”

Even though he was hampered by the guards’ hold on his arms and shoulders, Lorca was snarling defiance up at the Emperor. “Do your damndest, Philippa. You can’t stop the rebellion. You can’t kill us all!”

“I think you will find that I can kill enough,” Georgiou replied drily. “And for you - one more death is all you need worry about.” She waved a guard over. “See he is well taken care of tonight. A dawn execution, I think. On the balcony. It will be pretty.”

“Yes, your Majesty.”

As Lorca was dragged off, still swearing defiance, Georgiou turned back to Michael. “I have a few matters to take care of, and then, we shall celebrate the return of the Emperor’s Fist.” There was that arch amusement again, which Michael did not quite understand. “Guards, see to it that Captain Burnham has all she needs. I want her well rested tonight.” She tapped Michael’s shoulder lightly as she passed her, headed for the door. “I will see _you_ later.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case I haven't made it clear enough, Michael and Philippa were totally a thing on the Shenzhou.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael has a spa day. Sort of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been ages since I updated, but I'm hurting myself as much as I'm hurting any one of you who's been hanging out for an update, because I still refuse to watch any of the episodes until I've finished this!
> 
> Carrot and stick approach is the only way I'm going to get to the end tbh. sigh.
> 
> Anyhoot...this means I still have no clue what's happened after episode 10, so please please please, no spoilers if you're nice enough to leave a comment.

 

A guard led Michael from the audience chamber, and handed her over to a civilian - a man, dressed in silk robes of pale blue, who bowed deeply when he saw Michael.

“Welcome back, Captain. Your bath awaits.”

“She needs to be ready in time for dinner, Boris” the guard said. “The Imperial Majesty will not thank you for any delay.”

“Of course,” Boris replied, shooing the guard away. “The quicker you leave us to it, the quicker she’ll be ready.”

Boris led Michael through a series of doors, winding deeper into the recesses of the Palace. Michael assumed she was being led to general quarters for a Palace guard, where she would find a shower and a change of clothes. Instead, on passing through the final doorway Boris held open for her, she found herself to be in a bathroom fit for the Emperor herself.

Long glass doors overlooked a peaceful garden. The walls were a dark, rough stone, the floors lined with thick planks of teak. The lighting was soft. The sound of flowing water and the gentle playing of a harp soothed the air. There were tubs and shower rooms, towels and soft robes, jars of soap and vials of perfume. The central tub was already steaming, three quarters filled with milky white water, and scented with osmanthus and jasmine.

“Captain,” Boris said, waving her towards the tub. “We have prepared your bath, just as you like it.”

Michael began to unbutton her collar, and had a moment of panic when she thought that Boris would be her bathing attendant and expect to scrub her back. But the man bowed and murmured “I will fetch your tea,” and disappeared soundlessly into one of the back rooms.

As she lowered herself into the hot water, Michael could not help her groan of pleasure. Captain Burnham had good taste in bath water.

She soaked for a few minutes before examining the containers of powders and lotions that lined the tub, selecting something warm and spicy to scrub herself clean with. Showers on the Shenzhou had been perfunctory at best; the Empire obviously did not see the point of wasting resources on an officer’s comfort. She thought guiltily of Lorca - no doubt already screaming in his agoniser - and felt a sudden chill, even as the sweet-smelling steam wreathed around her.

But she had to hide her conscience-stricken expression when Boris returned, bearing a tray. He poured her a cup of tea with gold flecks glinting among the leaves, sweetened with plump red berries.

“From the Emperor’s private reserves,” Boris said oilily. “The Imperial Majesty is generous today.”

“Indeed,” Michael murmured, sipping the tea. It was sharp and sour, the sweetness of the berries only arriving on the tongue after the tartness faded. She settled against the tub wall, and contemplated the ethereal patterns the rising steam sketched in the damp air.

Michael was grateful that, after pouring the tea, Boris retreated silently into the background. This was the first time she felt truly alone for days now, and she desperately needed to take the opportunity to meditate. Meeting any version of a living Philippa would have shaken her. But seeing Philippa like _this -_ cruel and revelling in a twisted version of affection - had wrong-footed Michael badly; she needed to bring the turmoil of her emotions into some semblance of calm before she betrayed herself.

But Boris allowed her only a few more minutes of solitude before he clapped his hands loudly. Startled out of her reverie, Michael scowled at him.

“The Emperor’s Masseurs are waiting,” he said, as though chiding a child who had allowed her dinner to grow cold while she day dreamed. “They have much to do.”

Michael sighed as she stood to climb out of the tub; the Emperor’s orders had to be obeyed.

Boris led her to one of the back rooms, where waited a massage table and two wizened women, who wore white robes and matching knowing grins. They were small enough that they came only to Michael’s shoulder; their only distinguishing feature was their hair - one wore her hair silver and slicked back into a tight bun, the other’s was the same pale blue of Boris’s robes, cut short and left loose.

“Zum Yin, Zum Lan”, Boris said, bowing to each in turn.

“Hop up, girl,” Yin said, patting the table. “The Imperial Majesty wants you relaxed.”

Michael frowned; Boris, and now these two old woman, treated her with unexpected familiarity and irreverence. She was a Captain of the Fleet, and they were manservants; she would not have expected them to be so impertinent. Perhaps there was some protection in being part of the Emperor’s personal staff.

“Be gentle with her, grandmothers,” Boris said as Michael strode forward.

“She’s big and strong,” said Yin.

“We won’t break her,” said Lan.

But when she’d stretched herself out on the table and felt the first touch of their hands - tough as the teak of the floor planks, with palms as wrinkled and supple as old leather - Michael began to seriously doubt that she _would_ survive this encounter unbroken. The women kneaded her muscles with such painful intensity, it felt like they were rolling her bones flat with a pin made of marble. Michael let out a yelp of protest.

Yin tutted. “Are you a Star Fleet Captain or a mouse?” she asked as she sunk her elbow into the spaces between Michael’s ribs.

“The Emperor will want you limber,” Lan said as she dug her fingers into the base of Michael’s skull and nearly pulled her head off her neck.

“The Emperor will want me in one piece!” Michael protested, as her fingers were pressed back half-way to her wrist.

“A little pain is healthy,” Yin said cheerfully.

“And you’ll be fine. It’s more than our lives are worth to damage you,” Lan said, equally cheerfully, obviously not fearing any such fate.

In between pummellings, they plied Michael with more cups of the Imperial blend.

“Drink your tea. It will wash away all the poisons those warp drives have left in you.”

“You don’t really believe that, do you?” Michael asked, as she dutifully sipped the steaming cup, glad for any respite from the massage. “That space travel is poisonous?”

“No one who goes to space lives very long,” Yin said.

“Look at us,” Lan added. “Never set one foot off this planet, and I’ve lost count of how many husbands and wives we’ve buried.”

“How many old Star Fleet Captains do _you_ know?” Yin asked.

_Philippa’s hair had only just started showing lines of silver,_ Michael remembered. She’d been so taken with it, she’d comb her fingers through Philippa’s hair in search of it, like a miner prospecting for seams of gold. She caught herself wondering if she would find the same strands of silver in the Emperor’s hair. If this version of Philippa would enjoy those intimate caresses as much as the other had.

“I have to go,” Michael said abruptly, the sudden twist of pain and fear in her gut making her incautious. “There is something I must do.”

“But we’ve not finished!”

“I told you, the Emperor wants you limber!”

“This won’t wait!” Michael said, letting anger colour her tones. She hopped off the table. “Bring me my clothes.”

The women stepped back, shaking their heads crossly.

“Youth is always so impatient,” Yin said; she opened the door and called for Boris to bring Michael her clothes.

“Don’t come complaining to us if you can’t move tomorrow,” Lan warned.

“I’ll be fine,” Michael assured her.

Boris entered, his arms filled with frothy, silken, clouds of green and gold.

“What is _that?”_ Michael demanded.

“Your dress. For your dinner. With the Emperor,” Boris said, his tone making it clear that Michael was being incredibly difficult about everything.

“Bring me my uniform,” Michael said with a pointed snarl. “Now. And then you’re going to take me to the prison cells. I want to see Gabriel Lorca.”

***

If the officer in charge of the prisons was surprised to see Michael, he hid it very well. Instead she received a snappy salute and a query as to how he could help her.

“I want to see Lorca,” Michael told him sharply. “Get him out of whatever hole you’ve put him in, and bring him to me here.”

_Here_ was an interrogation room, where the air was sickly with the smell of old blood and pervading fear. There was nothing in the room but a table and two chairs. Not even a bucket for a prisoner who may need to relieve themselves - which explained some of the stench.

“You’re going to try interrogating him?” the officer asked. “He’s not been very talkative.”

Michael sat down in the chair across the table from where a prisoner would be shackled.

“Let a Master of Poisons have a go at him,” she said. “He’ll think the agoniser is a stroll in the gardens by the time I’m done.”

 

When they were alone in the room, Lorca chained in place and Michael pacing before him, the Captain frowned at her. “What has happened?” he said, his lips barely moving.

Lorca was right to question her - this was a foolish, _illogical_ , move; she was risking discovery, the uncovering of their plot. But Michael felt rudderless, forsaken by common sense; Captain Lorca was the only person she could turn to who had any hope of helping her find her way back.

“I’m struggling, Captain,” she said, her voice soft but tormented.

“Do you need me to remind you - we do what we have to here; whatever it takes to get the job done.” This was all delivered with a sneer on his face. “Now, hit me. They’re watching, and they’ll start to won-” His words cut short as Michael’s fist slammed into the side of his head. “Good,” he said softly.

Michael slumped into her chair. She put a pad and stylus on the table. She sighed. “Why does the Emperor trust me as much as she does?”

“Ahh. Seeing Georgiou was difficult for you.”

Michael tapped the pad. “This _universe_ is difficult for me. My counterpart - she’s a ruthless killer - she’s murdered _thousands_ . Philippa- What does it say about _me?_ At least _your_ counterpart is trying to do good.”

“You know as well as anyone, Burnham; none of us are simply _good_ or _evil._ We live in shades of grey.” He laughed tiredly and rubbed his eyes; they were bloodshot and shone almost feverishly. “But I think there’s a core truth in all of us, no matter the universe. Take Sarek - his methods here may be less than ideal, but he is still trying to bring peace to the quadrant. And Philippa - Philippa will always be a warrior, and people will always follow her. To their deaths, if she asks it.”

Michael nodded; in some strange way, this did help her - it was an oddly comforting idea, that there was a kernel of truth in each of them that would resonate with the other, no matter how much the shell that surrounded them changed.

She pulled a small bottle from her pocket. “You look like you could use your medicine.” She stood and circled Lorca. “Scream like you mean it.” She grabbed Lorca by his hair, forced his head back, and administered drops of the medicine in quick succession to each eye.

Lorca whimpered, bit his lip till he drew blood, then began to howl; he sounded like an animal mortally wounded and baying for death to take him.

Michael took her seat again and watched his reaction with bland interest, until Lorca finally stopped howling and slumped forward, trembling.

“Do it again,” he muttered. “This can’t look too easy.”

“What can’t?”

“Make me scream again, and I’ll write something down. Can’t let Butcher Burnham fail.”

Michael repeated her actions, standing to drag Lorca’s head back and bathe his eyes in yet more medicine. Lorca screamed loud enough that it made Michael wince, concerned that she had actually hurt him.

“That should do it,” he said, his face twisted into a grimace of pain and despair.

She nudged the pad forward, and he picked up the stylus in shaky hands.

As he wrote, Michael asked, “What about you. What’s _your_ core truth?”

Lorca had to bite down on his grin. “Always being a pain in the backside to my superiors.”

Michael nodded, not able to manage more than a small smile at the attempted humour. “Tomorrow morning - I’ll hide my dagger on the balcony. I’ll loosen the ring you’ll be shackled to.”

Lorca inclined his head in a slight nod to show he’d understood. “You distract her, and I’ll break free and take her out.”

Michael’s stomach turned to ice at those words, at the reminder she’d have to steel herself to watch Philippa die all over again.

She stood to take the pad from Lorca, hesitated for a moment, then said, “One request. Don’t let her suffer too much? Give her a clean death.”

Lorca laughed, an empty dull sound. “And that’s _your_ truth, Burnham.”

 

***

 

Michael thought about Lorca’s words as she waited to see the Emperor. Michael would not shy from taking a life, if circumstances required it. But she did not take pleasure in killing; if she killed - _when_ she killed - she struck hard and fast and took little joy in her victory. Perhaps that was where she differed from the Burnham of this world. Here, she was a Master of Poisons, known as the Butcher; _this_ Burnham delighted in killing. And she had obviously thrived under the mentorship, and earned the trust and affection, of a Philippa Georgiou who valued these qualities above all else.

Michael hoped this would help put the second part of their plan into action; she had to ask Georgiou to make Lorca’s execution a private matter, with no guards present to witness the third part of their plan.

The third, central, part of the plot was for Lorca to kill Georgiou, then send a message to Sarek’s ship, which even now was cloaked and in orbit around Terra. A rebel doctor had installed a low-signature device in one of Lorca’s teeth. He’d bite down on it when the time was right, and that would be the message for Sarek to send in his replacement Emperor. The more Michael saw of the Imperial Palace, the less likely she thought the success of Sarek’s plan would be. So she was making plans of her own. In the confusion that would follow Georgiou’s assassination, Michael was planning to find a way to beam back onto the rebel ship, rescue Ash, call the Discovery, and get them all the hell out of this insanity. But for all that to happen, she had to stay on Sarek’s good side, which meant continuing to follow the steps of the plan he had laid out.

Michael waited in an antechamber, alone except for her two differential guards; she’d been told the Emperor was meeting with the Imperial consuls and advisors and Michael would have to wait until she was granted leave to enter.

Philippa did not keep her waiting very long, but when Michael walked into the room, she found that she was not walking into a private meeting. Georgiou was still holding court; she sat at the head of a long table, her chair raised slightly above everyone else, the commander of her guard standing at attention behind her. She still wore her uniform, and had put the mask back on again; the red robe shrugged off and draped carelessly over the back of her chair framed her in a border of glowing crimson and glittering gold.

The Emperor spared Michael the merest flicker of a glance before continuing speaking to a trembling consul. Her voice, even distorted by the mask, was almost bored, and yet the consul looked terrified; the other advisors and consuls kept their heads down, staring fixedly at the table.

“I fail to understand,” Georgiou said, “how control of Archanis continues to elude us. Tell me again, what steps have you taken to subdue the Klingons?”

“C-curfews. Sanctions.”

“Enforced how?”

“Time in the stockades.”

“And when offenders have served their time?”

The consul visibly paled. “We have them whipped,” he said, enunciating clearly. “And then returned to their families,” he muttered.

“Alive?”

“Yes your Majesty,” he said. “But they have been duly punished. Re-offending is rare!”

“And yet, Archanis is still a hotbed of rebel action.”

“A few cells have-”

“Are you contradicting me?”

“No! No your Imperial Majesty. I would nev-”

“So put this hotbed to rest, hmm? Flog these curfew breakers, and then return them to their families, minus their heads.”

“I..I..”

Georgiou leaned forward, suddenly no longer bored; her gaze pierced the consul in place, like a butterfly pinned helpless to a board. “If you find yourself unable to carry out the _simplest_ of orders, I suppose I could try to find someone who can.”

“That will not be necessary, your Imperial Majesty.” The man’s voice quavered. “Your orders will be carried out.”

The Emperor nodded curtly. “Go. Now. Return to Archanis. Deliver me a dutifully obedient colony. Or die trying.”

The consul hurried out of the room, brushing against Michael’s shoulder in his haste to leave the Emperor’s presence. He stared wide-eyed when he noticed Burnham, cringing as though expecting a blow, but managed to make his escape without any further calamity befalling him.

When Michael looked from the fleeing man back to the Emperor, she found that Philippa was watching her.

“Most people know better than to disturb me when I’m working,” Georgiou said. Unspoken in her tone was a definite threat and challenge.

Michael tapped the pad in her hand. “I brought you something.” She strutted close enough to Philippa to toss the pad down in front of her.

“What is this?” Georgiou asked. There was annoyed amusement in her voice now, but she made no move to pick up the pad.

“Names. Locations. Rebel sympathisers and their bases of operation. Lorca’s been in hiding for long enough that this information may be outdated, but -”

“You got him to talk?” It was a woman, seated at the Emperor’s right, who spoke. Her hair was grey and closely cropped, her eyes - now widened slightly in surprise  - were dark; she was dressed in the regular black uniform of the Fleet, but showed no command pips, her only insignia a badge that marked her as an interrogator.

“Captain Burnham can be _most_ persuasive,” Georgiou said. “But Gabriel is…a little slippery.” She pushed the pad closer to the interrogator. “Look into this, Archer. See if there’s anything useful there.”

“At once, your Majesty,”

“As for you, Captain,” Georgiou said to Michael, “You leave me at risk of feeling churlish. All these gifts, and I haven’t got _you_ anything.”

“Pleasing my Emperor is the only gift I require,” Michael said with a bow. She heard the quick, amused, snort Georgiou gave; it emboldened her to make her request. She offered the Emperor a small smile. “But...there _is_ something that I would enjoy.”

“And what might that be?” Georgiou asked.

“I’d like to be present at Lorca’s execution. Just you and me, in the dawn light, while I take the head of the dog who would dare to-”

Georgiou laughed, the sound echoing eerily in the hollows of the mask. “A private execution before breakfast. How romantic.”

“Your Majesty,” the commander of Georgiou’s guard spoke suddenly. “Do you think that would be entirely wise?”

The Emperor glared at him. “Do I have anything to fear? Here in my own palace. Under the watch of _your_ guards. Do you not feel up to the task of protecting your Emperor?”

“Your Majesty-” the commander was brave enough to try, but the Emperor cut him off with an angry gesture.

“Captain Burnham has returned to us, has done what _none_ of you could do. She asks me for one thing. I will grant it to her.”

 

Michael was escorted out of the audience chamber, Georgiou dismissing her with a curt _“I have work to do, Captain. Leave.”_ She found Archer, the interrogator, still waiting for the turbolift. The two women stood side-by-side in awkward silence until Archer cleared her throat and said, “I don’t know how you managed to get the information out of him. I never thought he’d break.”

There was enough familiarity in her tone that Michael said, “You know him.”

Archer nodded. “I did. At the Academy. We were cadets together.”

“You were friends?”

“No!” Archer spluttered. “Lorca does not make friends. We were just in the same cohort. But even that little an acquaintance earned me weeks with the interrogators when he tried to assassinate the Emperor.”

“They can’t have found anything too incriminating. You’re still...with us.”

Archer smiled, a dry, humourless smile. “True. But it ended my career. I’ll never command so much as a garbage scow. I’ll never be anything more than an interrogator.” She glanced at Michael’s guard and added hurriedly. “But I will be forever grateful to the Emperor for allowing my family to keep their positions and properties while I was under investigation. And for allowing my promotion to Chief Interrogator.”

“The Emperor is certainly fair-minded,” Michael agreed. She fidgeted, curious and a little nervous that Archer - with her first-hand knowledge of Lorca - may have noticed she had an impostor in her cells. “Lorca - he must be a different man after all these years?”

“No.” Archer said flatly. “He’s exactly the same. Same dead eyes.” She grimaced suddenly, as though reacting to a distasteful memory. “Lorca always believed the only way to the top was to build himself a ladder of dead bodies.”

As she was escorted back to the Emperor’s quarters, Michael thought about what the Interrogator had said, and she thought about the Captain; even after days of torture and the risk of discovery and death at any moment, the man was still steadfast and focused on their goal. Perhaps _this_ was Lorca’s core truth - the single-mindedness to succeed, no matter the cost.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter that earns the mature rating. Also the one that warrants the dubcon tag. Because while Philippa may be willing, she thinks this is her Burnham, not some alternate universe version of her lover. That entire situation just makes me a little nervous about consent issues.
> 
> Longer chapter than usual, because a lot happens, and I am so pushing to get to the end of this so i can finally watch the episodes I've missed!!

 

 

As she walked through the Palace - one guard leading the way, the other trailing two steps behind her - Michael took every opportunity to learn more about the layout of the building. She had been trying to find a computer that would allow her access enough to find floor plans, but she had begun to lose hope of ever being left alone for long enough to find any information that could help them if they needed to escape in a hurry.

So she was pleasantly surprised when her guards stopped at a door, and made no move to follow her through. The entrance panel responded to her touch, so it must have been keyed to Michael Burnham’s biosignatures, for which she was grateful. She would not want to have been entering codes in a trial and error sequence while the guards watched her fumble.

Behind the door she found a relatively spartan room - more an office, with a few concessions to personal comfort, than living quarters. The work desk and computer were the prominent features; there was a couch and a couple of easy chairs, and she found books (strangely, books about archeology and anthropology) on one of the shelves, but not much else that spoke to the personality of the woman who used this space regularly.

A couple of doors led off from this room; through one of them she found a well equipped bathroom, stocked with the same powders and lotions she’d found in the Emperor’s bathing room. The other door was locked against her, and Michael began to understand - this was where Captain Burnham awaited the Emperor’s pleasure.

Michael thought that perhaps her luck was finally turning. She was unwatched, and Burnham’s computer sat waiting on the desk.

She seated herself at the desk, woke the computer to life, and was about to access the communication grid, when the door pinged; someone was demanding entrance.

Michael growled in frustration, but ordered, “Enter!”

The door opened to reveal Boris, his arms filled with the green and gold dress he’d tried to put her in earlier, and Michael groaned.

“You’re not usually this reluctant over your pampering,” Boris said archly as he hung the dress. Its length fell to the floor in gauzy folds. It was beautiful, and would be arresting on Michael’s body, but she did not have the time to wrap herself in frothy chiffon and make herself into a treat for the Emperor to enjoy.

“I’m busy, Boris,” she growled. “I can dress myself. Later.”

He tutted and disappeared into the bathroom. Michael fidgeted, unable to start her search with Boris still in the room. When he reemerged, Boris was carrying a long flat case. He set it down on the desk, pulled one of the other chairs closer, and sat. “Hands,” he said, as he opened the case.

Michael stared at him as he laid out a soft cloth on the desktop and started setting out little bottles and tiny tools that looked like miniature torture instruments.

“Hands!” he said again, more firmly, tapping the cloth.

“Can’t this wait?” she asked, putting a level of threat in her voice. But Boris continued to seem unfazed by any sign of her irritation.

“Let me see your hands, Captain. And then we can judge.”

Michael snarled and slammed her hands down on the table, palms up.

Boris sniffed, reached out and turned her hands over. “Look at the state of you!” he lamented.

The oils in the bath and the lotions Lan and Yin had used in their massage had helped somewhat, but Michael’s skin was still chaffed and dry.

“Your nails!” Boris cried as he peered closer. “What have you been doing? Tearing off deckplates with your fingers?!”

Michael examined her hands. They’d lived through a rough few weeks; her nails were jagged and torn, and despite the bath, she could see dirt ingrained at her fingertips. She sighed. “I suppose you want to give me a manicure.”

“You sound like you’re doing me a favour,” Boris grumbled as he stood to fetch a basin of warm water. “But you know as well as I, the Emperor would not allow you anywhere near her in that state. What were you _thinking_ Captain? She’d have you flogged if you touched her with those. And not in the way you enjoy.”

Michael stared at her hands. She stared at Boris. He picked her hands up, immersed them in the water, and beamed at her. “Let’s get the Emperor’s Fist all nice and pretty and ready for duty, shall we?”

Michael snarled, the full implication of the Emperor’s pet title only now dawning on her. She hid the fluster the little frisson of desire this realisation set off in her behind a growled threat. “Why does she let you live?”

Boris laughed. “What is it you always say? _Your insolence will be the death of you._ Ahh, Captain. Not so long as I am useful to my Emperor.”

As she surrendered herself to Boris’s ministrations, Michael’s mind wandered to a memory of Captain Georgiou speaking to a group of awe-struck cadets: _A captain is only as good as the people she surrounds herself with_. (Michael had preened a little that Philippa had chosen _her_ to be one of those people _)_. Then one day they’d returned to the Shenzhou from a dangerous away mission where they’d had to deal with disaster after disaster resulting from decisions made by an incompetent planetary governor.

They were debriefing, and the Captain had been pouring over reports. Finally she shut off her computer with an exclamation of irritation. She glowered at Michael. _Remember this,_ she’d said angrily, _a captain is only as good as the people she listens to._ The planetary governor had received warnings from his staff, but had chosen to ignore them all. His logs were a paranoid recounting of accusations of bias and blame. He followed only the advice of his aide, a man who apparently did not nothing but agree with everything the governor said.

Michael wondered if Emperor Georgiou had learned a similar lesson. Be wary of sycophants; put your trust in the right people. There was truth in Boris’s insolence; perhaps the Emperor valued having that in at least one member of her staff.

Michael was still coming to terms with the fact that Philippa had trusted her, listened to her, taken her advice and acted on it - and all those choices had led directly to her death. The Burnham of this universe had either been wiser than to make such a devastating mistake, or this Georgiou did not trust her Burnham quite as much as the other had.

 

***

 

When Michael was finally alone again - Boris having finally satisfied himself with the state of her manicure - Michael turned eagerly to the computer and accessed the communication grid.

“Shenzhou, this is Captain Burnham. Put me through to Commander Detmer.”

Detmer appeared on the screen. She was on the Bridge, standing beside the Science Officer.

“Captain.” She sounded tired, but her stance was crisp, her eyes focused unflinchingly on Michael’s face.

“Tell me you have answers for me.”

“Our best guess is that the rebels somehow were able to match their transporter device to the phase shifts of our shields.”

“Those phase shifts are run on a random algorithm. How are they able to anticipate them?”

“We are still working on that, Captain.”

“Work quicker.” She made it a threat. This was important information for her to have. If they did make it back to Discovery, she did not want the ship’s shields to be defenceless against a retaliatory rebel attack.

She let Detmer go, and kept working on the computer, trying to find out more information about the Defiant. But if any records or mentions of visitors from a parallel universe existed on this database, either Captain Burnham did not have the necessary access, or they were so well hidden even Michael Burnham could not find them.

She hadn’t realised how much time had passed on her increasingly-frustrating search, not until the chime above the sealed door sounded, and the door slid open.

Michael stared at the open door, but no one passed through. She hurried to her feet and entered the room beyond.

As she had suspected, she was in the Emperor’s quarters, the same rooms they had been brought to this morning. There had been somewhat of a transformation made to the decor - there were soft lights and softer music - a tune Michael was unfamiliar with, played on stringed instruments with rhythmic drums and chimes keeping time.

A dining table had been set up in the centre of the room, by the open glass doors that led onto the balcony. Platters of food steamed on the sideboard against the wall. Michael inhaled deeply; this she _was_ familiar with. She could pick out some of her favourite dishes. Her stomach growled, reminding her she’d not eaten for hours.

The curtains at the other end of the room parted, and Philippa - Michael suddenly found she could not think of her as The Emperor - walked in. It did not help that Philippa was dressed entirely unlike the stern Emperor. She wore a simple shift of ivory silk, held to her body only by thin straps, tied at the shoulders. Her dress was plain, but she’d saved the adornment for her hair. It fell to her shoulders in a dark curtain, with golden strands snaking through it, bearing the weight of clear, sparkling, gemstones. She looked like moving moonlight, her hair a field of stars pinned against the dark of space.

Philippa’s stride was smooth, long-legged, with a slight sway of her hips that caught Michael’s eye and drew her mind back to other evenings she’d spent alone with her Captain. They’d saved most of their intimate dinners for shore leave, but a few times, on special occasions, Philippa had invited Michael into her quarters. They’d cooked together, and eaten at the functional crew-quarters’ table, with the stars as their backdrop and a romantic Vulcan harp playing over the speakers. Something in the pit of Michael’s stomach shivered to think that this Philippa and _her_ Michael had spent similar evenings together.

Philippa paused when she saw Michael, standing half-way into the room, staring. “You haven’t changed for dinner,” she said, disapprovingly.

Michael gulped, recalling in a rush all of Boris’s dire warnings. “I’m sorry. I forgot the time.”

“There was something more distracting than dinner with me?” Philippa asked, starting to move again, her slow saunter carrying her to the dinner table. Her voice was flat, not cold, but neither did it resonate with the faint tinge of amused annoyance Michael had so quickly grown accustomed to.

“I was trying to work out how the rebels got through the Shenzhou’s shields. We can’t afford to be that vulnerable again.”

“Ah Michael,” Philippa said on a sigh. She moved closer. “Always so hungry for battle. I do like that about you.” That acid fondness was back in her tone now, and Michael felt her own face soften with a smile. Philippa’s voice dropped to a low hum, teasing and wry. “But I hope you’re hungry for other things too.”  

She took Michael’s hand and led her to the sideboard where Michael now noticed, laid out beside the platters of food, was a selection of sex toys. Michael stared at them. None were quite identical to what she herself had once kept in her quarters on the Shenzhou, but many of them were similar enough to be familiar. The whip though, that was new. She couldn’t stop herself from picking it up. The thong was silky smooth to her touch, but there was a good weight to it, and Michael felt herself shiver.

“As you can see,” Philippa said, taking the whip from Michael’s hands and placing it gently back on the sideboard. “I asked for your favourites. _All_ your favourites. But first, let’s eat.”

They sat at the table, Georgiou at the head, Michael on her right side. Philippa allowed Michael a scant few mouthfuls before she asked, “Was it really necessary to let me believe you were dead?”

Michael swallowed hurriedly. “There was no other way. It was too risky. I wasn’t sure who could have intercepted the signal.”

“You think it possible that someone here - in my Palace - could betray me?” Georgiou asked derisively.

“I didn’t know how deep Lorca’s ties with the rebels went,” Michael said earnestly. “I couldn’t take the chance that he would learn I was still alive. He’d have been impossible to find if he thought there was a chance I was still hunting him.” She watched a disbelieving frown settle on Philippa’s face, and knew she had to find a distraction. “If I’d known my death would bother you-“

 _“Bother?!”_ Philippa spluttered, reacting to the accusation of weakness as Michael hoped she would. “I was not _bothered._ I do not like being _lied_ to, Michael. You are one of the few people under my command to warrant my trust. I would hate to think you had lost that.”

Ridiculously, Michael felt a sudden surge of guilt and regret. To sit across the table from Philippa and hear her say she doubted her was painful, no matter which version of Philippa was doing the accusing. “I - I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. If I ever fake my own death again, I’ll be sure to get a message to you first.”

Philippa watched her searchingly for a moment, then nodded tersely. “See that you do.”

The tension dissipated as suddenly as it had arisen, and Michael found herself on the receiving end of a genuine, pleased smile. “I liked your idea for a private execution. Commander Munsi isn’t happy about the security risks. But that is the only death Lorca deserves. Quiet and uncelebrated. A public execution would make a spectacle of his betrayal. Give anyone who dares to support him a symbol to rally around. No. Your way is best.”

Michael nodded. “As always, you are the master strategist.” She inclined her head in a bow.

Philippa laughed, and patted her hand. “Flatterer,” she said drily. She sipped her wine and added conversationally, “I’ve given some thought to what to do with his head. I think I’ll have it gilded, and placed at the foot of my throne. He’ll make a good footstool, don’t you think?”

Michael had to hide behind the pretense of drinking her wine to buy herself a few seconds to school her face into an amused grin. “The perfect fate for him,” she agreed.

“Would _you_ like a trophy of some sort?”

Michael’s eyes widened at the thought of what piece of Lorca the Emperor may want to offer her.

“His ship was destroyed, so I can’t give you that,” Philippa continued musingly. “His family holdings have been stripped. But there is an estate - in San Francisco I believe - still standing. Would that suffice?”

Michael shook her head. “There is no need-”

“Just a starship, eh? I knew I was setting a dangerous precedent gifting you my old ship.” There was enough laughter in Philippa’s voice that Michael knew she was teasing. “How is the Shenzhou holding up?”

“She’s good,” Michael said. “A fine ship. Detmer is a good first officer.”

“Hmm. Perhaps you are ready for command of a second ship. _Commodore_ Burnham has a nice ring to it, no?”

“It does. But-”

“The Discovery. That’s a ship worthy of your talents, I think. We can arrange it tomorrow. You will issue the challenge to Captain Tilly. Once you’ve beaten her, I’ll promote you to Commodore. My little thank you for my new footstool.”

“Your Majesty is generous,” Michael murmured.

Philippa laughed. “Well, that’s the niceties all taken care of.”

Michael felt the icy clutch of panic. She knew what would come next. The bed was not twenty feet from where they sat, the implements for giving pleasure even closer to hand than that. But Michael wasn’t sure she was ready to take the Emperor to bed. And she was suddenly very clear of the difference between the two women - this was not _her_ Philippa sitting across the table from her speaking casually of executions and grisly trophies and promotions over a fellow Fleet Officer’s murdered body.

When the Emperor stood, Michael jumped to her feet too. But instead of moving around the table to take Georgiou’s outstretched hand, she turned in the other direction, towards the far wall.

What Michael had seen of the Emperor’s quarters were - for the most part - tastefully decorated. But prominently displayed across the walls here were various weapons that did not quite fit in with the soft textures and soothing colours of the rest of the room.

Michael made her way to an intricately curved dagger she recognised as a Klingon _mek’leth_. Up close, she could see the edges were still sharp, and what she had thought a layer of rust was in fact the remnants of blood - both human and Klingon. “This one is my favourite, I think,” she said, knowing she was rambling in panic even as the words left her mouth.

The Emperor seemed in an indulgent mood though, and laughed as she sauntered over to Michael. “It should be. This is the trophy that brought you to my attention. I still remember it, you know. Absolutely drenched in the blood of your foes. The gleam of a battle won still in your eyes. You were magnificent.” She ran a hand up Michael’s arm. “You still are.”

“Philippa,” Michael said, her voice low and hesitant. She made no move to return the Emperor’s caress.

Georgiou frowned. “Did you find someone else out there, on your hunt for Lorca? Someone you find more appealing than me?”

Later, when all this was over, Michael would feel some guilt that when she answered with an emphatic “No!”, Ash never so much as crossed her mind. But at this moment all she was thinking about was survival. From what she had seen of the Emperor, there was little doubt in her mind that Georgiou would not take rejection kindly. And if Michael ended up in a cell tonight, or kicked out of the Palace, that would throw a wrench in their already so-shaky plans. She had to get through this, just as she had got through all the other hiccups and challenges this distorted universe had thrown in her path. Lorca’s words echoed in her mind, essentially the final orders she’d received from the Captain before setting off on this mission: _Do what you must. Whatever you must. To anyone._

She had managed killing a man who looked like her Ops officer; she could surely bring herself to fuck a woman who looked, sounded, and felt like her dead lover.

These were her choices - to deny the Emperor, and most likely end up banished from the Palace, and ruin their chances of getting home, or maintain the facade that she was still the Emperor’s paramour and keep hope of their mission’s success alive. When she thought about it like that, there really wasn’t any choice in the matter.

Michael assumed that Captain Burnham would be all bravado in bed, rough and hard and demanding. Some of the sex toys the Emperor had on display certainly pointed to that conclusion. But Burnham had been away for months, she would surely not approach her lover with rough passion right out of the gate. This first moment back together again would be a joyful rediscovery, not a continuation of the battle their everyday lives were.

So Michael took Philippa’s hand in hers and kissed it. She led her to the bed where, with careful fingers, she unwound the golden strands and gemstones from her hair and laid the glittering mesh carefully by. She untied the stays of Philippa’s shift, kissing her shoulders as the silk fell from her body. She kissed her neck, softly, inhaling the scent of her skin - a scent that was startlingly familiar. Michael was not expecting to feel so achingly like it was _her_ Philippa who stood naked and waiting in the circle of her arms. But it made it easier to keep touching her, because worshipping Philippa’s body was something she would gladly lose herself in. She could quiet her rational mind, and let her instincts take over - instincts driven in no small part by the needs of a heart that had still not completely healed.

Michael lay Philippa down on the bed, following to straddle and lean over her, her mouth and hands never leaving her body. She could feel Philippa’s touch on her, unfastening her uniform, pushing the jacket back and away from her, unbuttoning her trousers. Philippa’s hands snaked under Michael’s tank top, raked nails across her tense stomach. Michael hissed; her skin shivered under the assault, and she bared her teeth against Philippa’s breast. Philippa groaned with pleasure at the sharp pressure, bucked under Michael when she replaced her teeth with her tongue, seeking to soothe where she had bitten. Her fingers closed on Philippa’s hip and side, pressing her into the mattress as she shifted.

Michael delighted in all the similarities she found - the hisses and groans of encouragement, the hard ridges of muscle her fingers felt under the soft skin, and the sharp saltiness when she lapped along the hollows of her clavicles and nipped at the softness at the base of her neck - all these were as familiar to her as her own body. But there were differences here too, differences which she lingered over, adding them to her catalogue of memories, until they all became part of the whole of Philippa for her.

This Philippa had seen more strife than Michael knew about. There was the crookedness under her right breast that spoke of a rib badly healed; white ridges that ran in parallel lines across her shoulder blades which Michael licked along, trying not to think of the creature or weapon that must have nearly split Philippa’s spine; the darkened mark of a phaser burn on her left hip, which Michael kissed tenderly; a long red line on the inside of her thigh that Michael traced with curious fingers and tongue, sure that there was still heat in this scar.

This was a body that had gone to war several times over, and while it had returned triumphant, had not returned unscathed. Michael met every new discovery with gentle, soft touches, with kisses and caresses that she unconsciously hoped would soothe whatever pain Philippa had felt when these injuries were done to her.

Finally, impatient, Philippa groaned, closed her fist in Michael’s hair, and pulled her head back from her thigh.

“Get on with it, Michael.” She may have intended to make it an order, but her voice shook. Michael grinned, bordering on teasing insolence, but she did get on with it.

She knew from experience that Philippa enjoyed her mouth alone at first, and then her mouth and fingers working in tandem; she discovered soon enough that this Philippa seemed to share that preference. Michael went from gentle, to rough and demanding, and back again, only stopping when Philippa was quivering against her tongue and clenching around her fingers, hips bucking wildly, her pleading cries a heady mix of pleasure and near-agony.

Michael crawled back up Philippa’s body, leaned over to take her weight on one elbow, and kissed her; her face was aglow with the contentment Philippa’s pleasure always left her with.

Philippa cupped Michael’s cheek in her hand and returned the kiss. “Get me a drink?”

“Of course,” Michael replied, noting another difference for her collection - this Philippa did not like to cuddle after sex.

Michael rolled off the bed, realising with a wry smile that she was still wearing her boots and trousers. She poured a glass of wine, turned to carry it back to the bed, and stopped. Philippa was only a few steps behind her, naked and barefoot, moving silently across the floor. Michael felt a warning frisson of danger run down her spine. She held the glass out, and the Emperor took it.

She sipped, eyeing Michael over the rim of the glass. “You don’t usually touch me like that.” Michael’s stomach twisted in fear, but the Emperor was still speaking. “You’re never that gentle until we’re nearly finished.”

“I missed you,” Michael blurted out, seeking safety in the half-truth.

“Hmm,” Georgiou said, thoughtful and wary. “Did something happen to you, out there on the edges of the quadrant?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve not gone soft on me, have you Michael? You know what happens to Officers who lose their edge.”

Michael knew. She’d read enough of the Empire’s histories to know. Commanding officers who could no longer be as ruthless as the Emperor demanded ended up stripped of rank and titles, their possessions and properties taken over by the Palace. They would spend time with the Interrogators and, if they were lucky, then be banished to a penal colony to eke out a living in the hardscrabble of a frontier world. If they were unlucky, if the Interrogators decided that their weakness and inactions were a betrayal of the Empire, then they’d face the executioners’ sword.

Michael realised she had made the wrong decision by not taking Philippa with voracious passion earlier. By choosing the gentler approach, she had turned the Emperor’s suspicions back onto her. She had a lot of ground to make up if she intended to make it through this night still a free operative.

“There’s nothing soft about me,” she said, letting a tinge of menace enter her voice.

The Emperor laughed, delighted. “Good. Prove it to me now.”

Michael pursed her lips, sauntered over to the table where the toys still waited. “Pick. What would you like me to use first?”

“Oh no, Michael. Those are _your_ favourites. You know what I like.”

Hiding her trepidation behind a smug grin, Michael moved back to the Emperor, took her face between her hands, and kissed her. She held nothing back from this kiss, allowing all the energy of the panic and fear she was suppressing to consume it. Philippa’s lips parted under the demands of Michael’s mouth, and she thrust her tongue between her teeth. Philippa bit and sucked, and Michael responded in kind, all the while moving them back towards the bed. When she felt the resistance of the edge of the mattress, she pulled away from the kiss and pushed Philippa back onto the bed.

“Strip,” Philippa ordered, her eyes bright and roving eagerly over Michael’s body.

“Tell me why you call me the Emperor’s Fist,” Michael ordered right back, her fingers twisted in the hem of her tank top.

Philippa’s eyes widened in surprise. “Have you forgotten?”

“I want to hear you say it.”

Philippa laughed. She nodded, her smile managing to be both coy and sultry. “You are the Emperor’s Fist because you strike where and when I will it.”

Michael grinned and pulled the tank top over her head, dropping it to the ground.

“You are the Emperor’s Fist because all my enemies fall under the power of your blows.”

Michael laughed at that, and kicked off her boots.

Philippa sat up, tugged Michael’s trousers and underwear down over her hips, and let Michael shimmy the rest of the way out of them. Putting her hands to better use, she drew her nails slowly across the mounds of Michael’s ass and around her waist, smoothed her palms along the planes of her stomach. Michael shivered, goosebumps breaking out in the wake of Philippa’s touch.

Philippa reached for Michael’s right hand, closing her own fingers over it, folding Michael’s hand into a fist. “You are the Emperor’s Fist because nothing in the universe gives me greater pleasure than this. And you are _mine.”_

Michael groaned, lost in a spell that seemed to have woven around her - she could no longer tell if she was doing this only for the sake of her mission or if it was because she hungered to touch Philippa, to be reclaimed by the passion she knew could flare between them in this bed.

She joined Philippa, settled herself between spread thighs, and murmured “Long live the Empire.”

Philippa threw her head back in laughter that ended in a gasp when Michael lowered her head.

 

Some time passed before Michael could say she had truly claimed her title. She had slipped on a self-lubricating glove and shifted her position so she could watch the reactions on Philippa’s face while her hand was busy between her legs.

At first it was a little strange for her, trying to find the ease of communication she was accustomed to with Philippa. So as Michael worked her hand slowly, stretching Philippa inch by inch, she was hyperalert to every wince or flash of pain. “Are you okay?” she’d ask. “Is this all right?”.

To her initial surprise, Philippa responded with honesty. “Give me a moment,” she’d say her voice a tentative husk. “One more”, as she breathed steadily through her nose. Then, “Yes. More. Slowly, slowly,” with her eyes fixed on Michael’s, wide and intent, her breathing slow and deep.

When Michael finally slid all the way into Philippa, their breathing was synced, their eyes unable to look away from each other. Michael felt tethered to Philippa, but not in a way that frightened her or made her tense. Instead this felt like they had become one entity, joined together into one being, a sharing of _katras_ in a physical form.

She could feel Philippa ripple around her, could feel the bones of her against her knuckles. She was held in a grip so strong, it should have terrified her; she was trapped, entirely at Philippa’s mercy; she could crush Michael with a thought.

But then they breathed, and Philippa blinked, moaned softly, ran her fingers wonderingly down Michael’s face, and everything changed. Now Michael could see how tiny Philippa was, how vulnerable; spread out under her, held to the bed by the weight of Michael’s fist - she could tear her apart with the slightest movement, if she wanted. But there was no fear in Philippa’s eyes - only wonder, and joy, and a shining bliss that left Michael’s mouth dry with desire. She kissed her, and Philippa kissed her back, softer and more welcome than a breath of air on a warm day. She spoke; using the language of stars, she named constellations and clusters, called Michael a shooting star and a supernova, the death and birth of the universe. She sounded like she meant every word she said, like truth was dropping from her lips wrapped in breathless wonderment.

Michael felt powerful beyond belief.

As Philippa cried out softly, clenching and releasing at every slight movement of her hand, Michael realised something - this connection she felt, it was not a one-sided thing. Philippa had to feel it too. She had only opened herself so completely to Burnham because of that connection. Away from this bed, the Emperor may speak of doubt, could appear to hold Burnham at arm’s length. But there was no artifice between them here. This was the core truth in each of them that spoke to the other, however their outer shells may change. No matter the universe, Philippa Georgiou trusted Michael Burnham with her life, and Michael Burnham would do whatever she had to to live up to that faith.

 

When Philippa’s body had reached the limits of what she could bear, she ordered quietly “Retreat.”

Michael kissed her and eased her hand carefully out, feeling the ripple of yet another orgasm around her wrist and knuckles. Philippa sighed, emptying her lungs in a sound of protracted relief and contentment. She curled into Michael, murmuring words of endearment as airy as her tone. In seconds, she was asleep, her head cradled on Michael’s chest, knees curled up under Michael’s thighs.

Still floating on waves of wonder, Michael watched the sleeping face. She stroked Philippa’s hair, rubbing her fingers gently against her scalp to soothe her dreams. She looked down as her fingers ran through the dark strands, smiled when she saw the glint of silver. Then she froze, recognising the mark of mortality. Everything came back to her at once. In a few hours, this Philippa would be dead too. Just as with the other, this Philippa trusted Michael Burnham, and that trust would lead her to her death.

But the mission had to be completed. The safety of the Discovery and all her crew, of Ash, of Captain Lorca, all depended on Michael doing her duty without faltering.

Michael hardened her resolve and eased herself carefully away from Philippa’s sleeping body. She dressed in her uniform, down to her boots, and stepped out onto the balcony. It was dark out here, but Michael did not turn on any lights. She did not want any watching guard to get too clear a view of what she was doing.

There was a ring set into the stone floor; the short chain that extended from it ended in a heavy metal clasp. Michael pulled a small laser tool from her belt and worked at one of the links, about half-way up the chain. It would hold under the pressure of two or three testing tugs, but not the desperate pull of a man who had nothing to lose. In the morning, Captain Lorca would be shackled here, and Philippa would be standing over him with her sword. She would think herself safe, believe she had beaten her enemy, up until the moment Lorca tore free of his restraints and stabbed her with the dagger Michael was now concealing in a curve of the near-by balustrade.

When her preparations were done, Michael sat back on her heels. She could not return to the Emperor’s quarters, could not climb back into bed with the sleeping Philippa and hold her until morning. She did not have the strength for that. Her mind and heart were a turmoil, but she had nowhere she could go to hide and try to recoup her strength of will. All day she had been desperate to meditate, but only now was she finally alone.

Michael shifted until she was settled in a _seiza_ position. She had no candle to help her focus; she could not look towards Earth, because she did not know in which direction that planet lay; the Vulcan of this universe held no connections for her. So she picked a light in the night sky around where she reckoned Shenzhou was in orbit around the planet. That ship was the closest thing she had to a home here. Still and silent in the dark, Michael fixed the light in her mind, closed her eyes, and tried to bring balance to the turbulence of her heart.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was also the chapter where I spent a lot of time questioning whether the words 'sex toys' would fit in a Trek fic, and trying to find a more elegant synonym for ass. spoiler alert: I don't believe one exists.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> after thousands of words about feelings and stuff, we finally get to the fight scenes!
> 
> and the big revelation.

 

 

The first pink tinges of dawn were just beginning to paint the sky when Michael rose from her meditation. She was calmer now, more focused, her mind clear and open and resolute. She leaned against the balcony and breathed in the cool of the coming day.

Behind her, she heard the doors open, recognised the brush of bare feet against stone.

Philippa had wrapped herself into a thin robe, she was carrying a data pad, her hair was disheveled, and she looked as relaxed as Michael could ever remember seeing her. It made her smile.

“What are you doing out here?” Philippa asked.

“I’d forgotten how much I enjoy the view.”

Philippa snorted in amusement. She held up the pad. “Morning reports. We’ve already had some results from the information you got out of Lorca. Well done.”

“Oh?” Michael said, not a little surprised. Lorca had given her a random string of names; she supposed that the Interrogators - not wanting to displease the Emperor - had found rebels where none existed. “That was quick,” she added, when Philippa looked at her, eyebrow quirked in query.

“Hmm. I was a little surprised at how quickly he folded. No disrespect to your talents. We’re assuming these are low-level targets. But still. It will send a strong message.”

“Indeed,” Michael murmured, offering a mourning prayer in her mind for the innocents who had died in the night.

“Come and have some coffee,” Philippa said, turning back towards her rooms. “Munsi will be here soon, with Gabriel. When that’s done, we can have some breakfast.”

Michael trailed after her.

Philippa lifted a scabbard from the wall and drew the sword, revealing a single edged weapon; long and narrow, with a slight curve to the blade. She examined the sword closely, and nodded, satisfied with what she found. She placed the sword down on the table, and poured herself a cup of coffee from a fresh pot.

The detritus of their dinner had been cleared away, as had the selection of toys. There were no signs left of their intimate evening together, other than a semi-dressed, sleep-tousled Emperor.

“Aren’t you going to change?” Michael asked, as she poured her own coffee.

“Why?”

“You’re...naked.”

Philippa frowned. “I’m wearing a robe.”

“Yes, but under that-”

“Michael -” Philippa cut her off angrily. “Do you think I need more than my skin to face Gabriel? What - do you want me in full battle armour, to execute a shackled traitor? Do you think I have grown _cowardly_ in your absence?”

“No!” Michael protested. But she could not explain herself. She could not say that she could see the outcome of this execution in her mind as though it were a prophecy - Philippa sprawled on the balcony, blood oozing from the dagger wound, with nothing to shield her body from her enemies’ eyes but a twist of silk. It would be an undignified death, not a death a warrior deserved, and Michael wanted to protect Philippa from that. But she could not _say_ that. She could only stare, mute and pleading, as Philippa stormed towards her. She grabbed Michael by the chin, and glared at her.  

Michael did not feel fear in this moment, but she did stare back with despair in her eyes.

The Emperor snarled. “You have broken,” she spat.

“Philippa,” Michael whispered, but the Emperor cut her off with a curt shake of her head.

“Whatever happened to you out there Michael, it changed you. You are not the Burnham I knew.”

Before Michael could make any word of protest, a warning chimed from the doorway.

“That’s Munsi,” the Emperor said, turning from Michael to let the Commander of her Guard in.

Michael stood frozen in place, only able to watch as Captain Lorca was led into the room. Munsi was at the head, followed by a trio of guards all of whom surrounded Lorca.

The captain’s wrists and ankles were held in metal clasps that restricted his movements to a shuffle. His clothes were filthy, blood caked his face, and visible bruises marked his skin. But he still managed to keep a suggestion of a swagger in his shuffle. He grinned lasciviously at the Emperor as he passed her, and when his gaze flicked to Michael his eyebrow arched suggestively.

“Take him outside,” Georgiou ordered, barely glancing at Lorca. “Get him ready.”

As Lorca was led to the balcony, Michael ran through possible scenarios in her head. Had she doomed their plan? Would the Emperor order her shackled beside Lorca, her derision for Michael’s weakness warranting a double execution on the spot? Or would she order Munsi to drag Michael away to the Interrogators even before the execution began? She could see from Philippa’s face that she was weighing her options in much the same way.

But when Georgiou stepped back to Michael, crowding into her space to glare at her, what she said was, “When this is over, you will leave. You will take the first transport off Terra. You will speak to no one. You will take nothing with you. Not your name, not your rank. Nothing. Go to the colony on Parthania. I don’t care what you do there, but you will _never_ return to Terra.”

“Philippa-”

“Better you had stayed dead, Michael.” She turned on her heel and stalked towards the balcony.

The Emperor had tried to hide it, but Michael heard the hurt in her voice.

A banishment - but not torture or death. And Parthania was a far-flung but relatively prosperous colony world. It would not be difficult for someone of Michael Burnham’s talents to rebuild a life there. This was the kindest possible punishment the Emperor could have meted out.

Michael felt her heartbeat slow with relief; but she was feeling something else too - the tight, warm glow of happiness.

The Emperor cared for Burnham. There was no other explanation. She saw what she thought was Michael’s weakness, but she could not destroy her for it, even though everything about the rules and expectations of this universe dictated that she should.

Munsi and the guards marched out.

Everything would be ready on the balcony.

The fall of the Emperor was imminent.

Things seemed to slow for Michael, as though she were still in her meditative trance. In this state, her mind was open and could see beyond the immediate evidence of her senses. Despite everything she had done to bring them to this exact moment, a part of Michael still hoped for a way to stop it - had still not reconciled herself entirely to accepting Philippa’s death. It was this part that sifted through her memories, turning over images and words and sounds, stitching disparate bits into a tapestry that whispered a story to Michael’s unconscious mind; a story that prompted her to take, unbidden, her first gift to Philippa from the wall.

_How had the rebels known that Lorca was on the Shenzhou? How had they known exactly where to find him? There had not been the slightest surprise in Lorca’s face when they first met the Emperor, and realised it was Philippa Georgiou. ‘The same dead eyes’. Lorca fit so easily into this world. While Michael had been shaken and close to panic, he had been steady as a rock. Almost as though he had not been torn from his reality and thrust into a bizarre, twisted, version of truth. Almost as though he were merely coming home._

Michael stepped out onto the balcony, the _mek’leth_ held loosely at her side.

Philippa was looking towards the doorway, her sword in rest position. She was waiting for Michael, impatience in the tense lines of her face.

The Captain was kneeling, chained in place. Michael could see him taking the strain on the chain, trying to snap the weakened link. The look he gave her was eager, predatory; he was looking forward to killing his enemy; he was going to enjoy it.

_The only way to the top was to build himself a ladder of dead bodies._

“You’re Gabriel Lorca,” Michael breathed.

He smiled. “Clever girl.”

“Michael?” Philippa asked, irritated and confused.

The weakened chain link broke, and Lorca was free. Things happened very quickly then. Lorca leaped to his feet, even though he was still hindered by his shackles, and knocked the sword out of Philippa’s hand. It skittered away from her and she fell back into a defensive position as Lorca swung his fists, chain trailing in an arc, to try to strike her down. As Philippa ducked to come in under Lorca’s attack a transport beam shimmered, and three Klingons materialised on the balcony. Lorca rammed his shoulder into Philippa, sending her staggering back towards the waiting Klingons.

This was not the plan. Lorca had somehow changed the plan. This was an unfair ambush, and Michael could not allow it to happen.

“Philippa!” she cried and flung the _mek’leth_ towards the Emperor. Somehow, Philippa managed to grab the dagger as she was turning to face the first Klingon. She sliced upwards and when he raised his _bat’leth_ to counter her attack, she pivoted in and around his body, kicked out behind her to send him crashing to his knees, and ran for the open doorway to her quarters. The Klingons howled and chased after her.

That was the last Michael saw of them, because she was running towards Lorca.

He stood and waited for her to reach him, his face wreathed in an almost manic smile.

“You’re..you’re from _here!”_ Michael said, not sure if she should be angry, if she should be fighting this man, if they were still allies or not. “Where is Captain Lorca - _my_ Captain Lorca?”

Lorca laughed. “I _am_ your Captain Lorca.”

How long had this imposter been in Lorca’s place?

“When-?”

Lorca shrugged. He was shuffling around, Michael noticed, his movements bringing him closer to the Emperor’s discarded sword. She tensed, ready for an attack if it came.

“Oh, when his ship went down. He was a sniveling coward at the end. He’d have done you no good as a commanding officer.”

“You killed him,” Michael accused, her hand reaching automatically for the empty holster at her hip.

“He was dying when I found him,” Lorca said, shaking his head. “I just took his place in the escape pod.”

Michael dived forward, rolling past Lorca and coming to her feet, the executioner’s sword in her hand. Her mind was racing, remembering and rearranging the events of the last few months to accommodate this new information. “You’ve been trying to get back here. That’s why you came after me.”

Lorca laughed. “Ah Michael. I wanted you with me. Not just because you’re the only one who could get me into striking distance of the Emperor. If we work together, we would be unbeatable. There’s an entire universe out there for us to conquer!”

“You want me to _join_ you?”

“This is your destiny Michael. Embrace it. Stick with me, and I’ll make you a _god.”_

“I don’t want to be a god,” Michael spat. “I just want to get _home!”_ She raised the sword and struck.

Lorca threw his hands up, using his metal shackles to deflect the blade. He bludgeoned Michael with the trailing chains, slamming into her ribs and belly to drive the air from her, smashing down on her arm so her sword fell from nerveless fingers. He barreled into her, driving her to the ground, back against the balustrade. While Michael was still dazed, he scrambled around behind her, trying to get her into a chokehold.

She scrabbled at his arm, an ineffectual attempt as her hand was still numb and useless from the battering he had given it. “You betrayed the rebels,” she gasped, hoping to keep him talking, to buy some time for her to mount a counter attack.

Lorca laughed and tightened his grip. “When I’m Emperor, they will have served their purpose. I’ll just finish what Philippa started.” He sighed. “I wish you had joined me, Michael. It could have been glorious.”

The edges of Michael’s vision started to darken. She could hear the sounds of fighting from the Emperor’s quarters, metal striking flesh and bone, cries of pain. So Philippa had not escaped. She had failed her. Again. Her hand fell away from Lorca’s elbow. She was so tired.

“But,” Lorca was musing, his words breathed wet and jerky into her ear as he tried to maneuver his hands into position to snap her neck. “Even if you won’t, I’ll still have the Discovery. With a ship like that, I can do anything.”

The Discovery. Her crewmates. Lorca would bend the full force of the Empire against them. They would not be able to run and hide from him for very long. Saru would never survive in a world like this - he was too gentle and easily panicked. Sylvia - she had learned the language and posture of threat, but if she had to face her counterpart in challenge, Michael knew which Tilly would walk away alive. And Ash - he’d die with the rebels, never knowing what happened to her, what she had done to try to save him. All those deaths, all because Michael could not find it in her to keep fighting.

Lorca’s re-positioning moved his elbow from her throat a fraction, just enough for Michael to draw a shuddering breath.

Lorca managed to get his hands on either side of Michael’s head; she tensed her neck to resist the snap she knew was coming. The feeling returned to her injured hand, and she reached back, desperately, running her fingers along the curves of the balustrade. It looked like she was just making a final weak effort to escape, so Lorca ignored it, but Michael was searching for something.

Her fingers found and closed over the hilt of the dagger she had concealed here, in the dark hours of the night, when she’d resolved she would see her mission through. Lorca would have used this dagger to strike Philippa’s death blow.

Instead, it was Michael who wielded it, striking back and up, stabbing the blade once, twice, into whatever part of Lorca she could reach. His hands fell away from her head and he slumped forward onto her.

Coughing and gasping for breath, Michael managed to roll away from under him. Lorca slid the rest of the way to the ground, the dagger hilt still protruding from his neck. He twitched, but other than that, made no movement. He stared lifelessly up at her.

_Same dead eyes_ Michael thought, feeling the hysterical laughter bubble up in her chest.

Then she remembered the Klingons. This fight was not over.

She picked up the executioner’s sword and stumbled towards the doorway.

Inside, the Emperor’s quarters were now a shambles. Furniture had been up-ended, light fixtures broken, curtains torn, splatters of blood everywhere...and three Klingons lay in various postures of death all around the room. Standing in the midst of all this destruction was Emperor Georgiou, still armed only with the _mek’leth._

“Philippa?” Michael said, disbelieving.

Her fight with the Klingons hadn’t left her unmarked. There was a cut that followed the ridge of one cheekbone, leaving the left of her face sticky with blood. Her robe was tattered and torn at the hem, the tie barely keeping it on her body. There was a red-stained slash that started under her left breast and ended at her right hip. Her arms and legs sported cuts and angry red bruises. She was limping and bleeding but she was alive.

“Gabriel?” Philippa brushed past Michael, took in the scene on the balcony, and nodded. “Good. I’m going to get Munsi. If these three could get through the shields-”

“Oh,” Michael breathed. She could see, on the arm of the nearest Klingon, the device the rebels had used to break through the Shenzhou’s shields. Sarek’s - or more likely _Lorca’s_ \- plan had gone as awry as she had suspected it would. But there was still a chance for her to salvage the only mission that really mattered to Michael - the mission to save the Discovery. She crouched down and unbuckled the band.

“What are you doing?” Philippa asked.

Michael straightened, pulled her communicator from her belt and flipped it open. “There’s probably a rebel ship up there, under cloak. I’m going to stop them.”

Philippa nodded, “Go. We’ll secure the Palace.”

“Burnham to Shenzhou,” Michael said into her communicator, eyes on Philippa as she activated her own communicator and started issuing orders. “One to beam up.”

There would be a few seconds of delay while Michael’s orders were relayed, and the transporter chief locked into her coordinates. Then she would either find the information she needed to get the Discovery home, or she would be captured, and very likely executed, by the rebels. Either way, this would be the last time she saw Philippa Georgiou. There was one last thing she wanted to do, something that would perhaps give her some peace over one of her greatest regrets.

Michael strode forward and took Philippa’s face in her hands. Ignoring the widened eyes of surprise, she leaned in and kissed her. It was as tentative and hopeful a kiss as the very first one they had shared. She felt Philippa shift against her, felt her clutch to the lapel of Michael’s jacket and pull her closer so she could deepen the kiss. Michael sighed, breaking contact with Philippa’s mouth. She stepped back, offered the Emperor a wry smile.

“Goodbye Philippa,” she said, her voice as steady and resolute as she could make it. “Thank you. For everything.”

Philippa frowned. “Michael-” she started to say.

But the Shenzhou’s transporter beam had her, and Michael disappeared before she could hear any more.

 

Like the good first officer she was, Detmer was waiting for Michael in the transporter room.

She gasped when she saw the state of her Captain. “I’ll get a medic-”

“No!” Michael cut her off harshly. “There’s no time. The Empire is under attack.”

“Here,” she thrust the rebel device into the transporter chief’s hands. “This thing will be broadcasting a signal back to the rebel ship. Track it. Get a fix on it. Now.” She turned to Detmer, held out her hand and snapped “Weapon.”  Detmer drew her phaser without argument and gave it to Burnham, grip first.

“These are your orders, Commander,” Michael snapped. “You will keep a lock on my signal. You will use it to triangulate your attack. There is a rebel ship out there, under cloak. They won’t be able to break through our shields this time.” Because, Michael now realised, Lorca was no longer on board to feed the phase shift cycles to the rebels.

“ _My_ attack?” Detmer asked.

“I’m beaming over. As soon as the Chief has a lock.” She glared at the transporter officer, who paled.

“Sir. Yes, Sir,” he replied, handing the device back to Burnham.

“But Captain-” Detmer began.

“You will open fire as soon as I am on board, Commander,” Michael cut her off. “Am I clear?” It would be a good distraction; a surprise attack would keep the rebels too busy to notice Michael sneaking around their ship, stealing records and rescuing Ash.

“But, Captain, what if we destroy her?” Detmer asked, showing a highly unambitious concern about the potential death of her captain.

“Try to give me a little time to complete my mission first,” Michael said drily. “But do what you must.” She only needed a few minutes, and on a ship under bombardment, she wouldn’t even need to try very hard to conceal her presence.

“Yes, Sir!” Detmer replied.

“We have it,” the transporter Chief interrupted. “They’re just out of range of our weapons-”

“Send the coordinates to the Bridge,” Michael ordered. “Tell them to get us underway, quarter impulse. Detmer - get back to the Bridge. Be ready to come out swinging.”

“Yes, Captain,” Detmer replied evenly. When Michael stepped onto the transporter pad, she gave her a crisp salute. “Long live the Empire!”

“I’m sure it will,” Michael replied tiredly.

 

She materialised, phaser drawn in case she appeared before witnesses, but thankfully found herself in a dark room. There was an unlocked computer console by the door; it was programmed in Vulcan, which was no deterrent for Michael. She located a ship directory and worked out how to get to Sarek’s quarters. Then she reached into her boot and pulled out her one-way link to the Discovery. “Burnham to Discovery. Saru, lock into my coordinates. Give me ten minutes, then drop in and pick us up. Do _not_ linger after you’ve got us!” She paused, almost willing to leave it at that, but added at the last moment, “There’ll only be two to beam out.”

She sent the message and killed the communication device before anyone on the Bridge could get a lock on it. Now she just had to wait for Detmer.

At the first rock of the ship and blare of alarm klaxons, Michael opened the door and slipped out. The corridor outside was empty, but she could hear the sound of running feet, moving away from her. She turned in the other direction, opened an access panel, and climbed into the guts of the rebel ship. She made her way along maintenance ducts, climbing steadily until she was on the right deck. It had not been a smooth journey. The ship jarred and shook with every hit the Shenzhou was landing. Relays and transformers overloaded and sparked. Warning klaxons screamed unceasingly. The air grew hot and acrid with the smell of burning alloys.

When she climbed out of the access panel on the command deck level, she found herself in far worse chaos. Men and women ran in every direction. There was a gaping hole in one of the external walls, the vacuum of space held at bay only by a forcefield. The rebel ship was returning fire, but it seemed the Shenzhou was getting the better of this battle.

Michael ran along the corridor until she came to Sarek’s quarters. The door was sealed, so she phasered it open. Inside, she found Sarek at his desk, working feverishly at his computer. He stood as soon as he saw her enter. She leveled her phaser at him.

“Michael,” he said, trying to sound calm and soothing. “You wouldn’t do this. Not to _me.”_

Michael snarled. “Have you forgotten? _You_ are not my father.” She fired.

The phaser was set to stun, so Sarek simply slumped to the ground unconscious instead of disintegrating.

Michael hurried to the computer, jammed in a spare data disk, and searched for the records she needed. Sarek had been wiping his computer’s core memories, erasing databanks of information about the rebellion, but he had not got to the stolen Imperial records yet.

Michael downloaded everything she could, getting as much information about the Empire and life in this universe as possible. If she had to stand before a court martial again, to face charges of murdering a Captain, she intended to put up a better defence than she had before.

By the time she was done, she realised she was running out of time. Saru was many things, and reliable and punctual were definitely on that list. Michael abandoned the idea of crawling back through maintenance ducts to reach the brig. She took the turbolift there, breaking through the brig door with seconds to spare. She’d had to stun three Klingons on her way, and there was another hot on her heels.

She saw Ash, huddled in the far corner of a cell - but not in an agoniser, thank the little sense of fairplay Sarek had apparently had. She released the forcefield to his cell and dived in. The pursuing Klingon came bursting into the brig, disruptor firing. But he was too late. Saru was on time. Michael and Ash disappeared into the light of Discovery’s transporter beam.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the end of this chapter feels a bit rushed, but by this point, all the good stuff has happened, and I hope we all knew from the beginning that Michael would make it back safely (and that we assumed treknobabble would save the day).
> 
> A note on Mirror Universe!Lorca being in place from the start. I've assumed for ages this is what the show was doing - because he was just so incredibly Not Our Trek as a character. And then the episode where he tricks Stamets into sending them to the MU pretty much cemented it for me. Everything fell into place for me after that. He'd been scheming from the very beginning to get back. Episode 10 told me he'd gone after Michael specifically because of her connection to the Emperor, and that was why he was so protective of her, because she had to be alive for him to bring to the MU with him. And I have wanted to kill Lorca from virtually the first episode he was in. (and more specifically, I have wanted Michael to not think that she can learn to be a good captain from him, because she's already had the ideal role model for captaincy, and that scene where she tells Lorca she's glad she has him for a captain about broke my heart, and so yeah - Michael had to be the one to discover his duplicity and stab him in the neck for his sins).
> 
> I don't know what the show has done with this storyline, but I would be so INCREDIBLY surprised if Lorca wasn't an evil MU bastard, I'd be willing to eat my hat.
> 
> Anyhoot, one more last little bit, to wrap things up in a nice open-ended bow, and this baby is finally done!


	6. Epilogue

 

 

Michael had reported the facts of Lorca’s death only to Saru. He was her commanding officer now, and she had to tell him the truth. But no one else on the ship knew how Lorca had died, or that they’d been serving under an impostor from this universe for months now. Michael and Saru agreed that allowing that information to be public knowledge at this time would offer far too much opportunity for panic and suspicion to set in. The crew could wait until they were safely home to learn the unadulterated truth. For now, they knew only that their captain been killed in a rebel attack on the Imperial Palace, and that Michael had managed to escape, rescue Ash, and bring them the key to returning home.

That hadn’t happened right away either. She and Tilly had spent hours pouring over the Defiant records before they figured out a way that could work. Engineering and Science departments got started on making the necessary modifications to the ship’s engines. Owosekun and Narwani found them a good hiding place to wait it out until the modifications were completed. And Michael found herself with a spare moment for human niceties.

She visited Stamets in the medbay. He was in one of his lucid states today, his eyes clear and his words not incomprehensible. These lucid moments were becoming more and more common, as Paul’s brain somehow healed itself after the trauma Lorca had put him through.

“I’m sorry about Hugh,” she told him.

“He’s not gone,” Stamets replied.

Technically, he was right. The CMO had found Hugh’s broken body in time to get his blood flowing again and get him into stasis. He was still in stasis now - being kept alive in a medical bay on the other side of the room. However, the CMO’s prognosis was, due the level of damage that had been done to his brain, if Hugh did wake up, he would never be more than a shell of the man he once was. He would have no memories, no way to communicate, to think; the essence of him would, in effect, be gone.

No one knew what had happened to Hugh. The assumption was that Stamets, in the grip of one of his non-lucid moments, had attacked his lover. Saru saw no point in confining Paul to the Brig; it was obvious he was not responsible for his actions when he was non-lucid, and he needed to stay in the medbay if there was any hope of him healing.

Stamets denied ever hurting Hugh though, repeating over and over the statement _the enemy is with us._

Stamets looked piercingly at Burnham. “The enemy is with us,” he said.

Michael sighed. Tilly had warned her that this was his common refrain. But in one way, Paul was right. Lorca had been the enemy. “He’s no longer here,” she said, trying to be soothing.

“Oh I don’t mean Lorca. I know you killed him. But the enemy is still with us.”

Michael started. “Stamets! You can’t just accuse-”

“I saw you,” he said. “Nothing else you could have done.”

_“How_ did you see-”

“There is a way, Michael. We can bring them back. We can bring them all back.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't kidding about that open-ended bow comment. :)
> 
> I do have a plan about what happens after this, but it's pretty out there, so I may never write it. (especially as I won't have any episodes I can not watch as an incentive to finish a fic). Also, after I watch what actually happens, I may never want to revisit this wee excursion into my idea of the MU ever again.
> 
> y'all, I wrote 10k words in a week. I haven't done anything like that since grad school! It's Sunday night here though, so my binge watching will have to wait till another time. :( But I don't really mind spoilers, now that this is done. I may go look up a synopsis or something before I sleep.


End file.
